


Streets are Uneven When You're Down

by DNAchemLia



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: AU, Angst, Gen, Horror, Inspired by a Netflix Show, Mystery, Science Fiction, general weirdness
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-06-23
Updated: 2018-05-20
Packaged: 2018-11-18 04:33:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,119
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11283825
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DNAchemLia/pseuds/DNAchemLia
Summary: While investigating a series of disappearances Sherlock vanishes without a trace. Is John involved, or is there something much stranger going on?





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> AU set after The Hounds of Baskerville but before The Reichenbach Fall.
> 
> Disclaimer: All recognizable characters are the property of their respective copyright holders. No infringement intended. The original characters and places mentioned are the product of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to those living, dead, or undead is completely coincidental.

John Watson sat stiffly on the hard metal chair as he struggled to maintain a calm, stoic expression. He’d had a lot of practice in that particular exercise over the years but this time it was exceptionally difficult to hide his emotional state. Anger, frustration and worry boiled beneath the surface and he was desperate to be doing  _ something _ instead being stuck in the small room he currently occupied.

_ I should be out there, helping with the search. I need to--  _  His thoughts were interrupted by the  creak of the door and he looked up to find a man he’d never seen before entering the room.

“Captain, excuse me,  _ Doctor _ John Watson?”

“Yes?”

The man took a seat across from him and placed a folder on the table that separated them. He withdrew a notebook and pen from his coat pocket before meeting John’s curious gaze.

“I’m Detective Inspector Augustin Martz.  You do not have to say anything, but it may harm your defence if you do not mention when questioned something which you later rely on in court. Anything you do say may be given in evidence.”

It took John a moment to register what the man was saying.

“Wait, you...you’re  _ interrogating _ me? What is going on? Where’s Lestrade?”

“DI Lestrade had been removed from this case due to conflict of interest.”

“Conflict of… What ‘interest’ would he have a conflict with?”

DI Martz studied John for a moment, a grim expression on his face. “I understand the you and he are...well acquainted. He considers you a friend, and since you are now a suspect--”

“A suspect in  _ what? _ ” 

“The disappearance of your flatmate, Mr. Sherlock Holmes.”

“That’s crazy.  _ I _ was the one who reported him missing! I’ve been trying to find him for  _ days. _ He’s my friend, for pity’s sake. Why in God’s name would you think--”

“We’ve had some new information come to light.”

“ _ What _ new information?”

“We’ll get to that. Now, how long have you known Mr. Holmes?”

“Almost two years.”

“And you’ve been sharing a flat at...221B Baker Street, NW1, London?”

“Yes.”

“And Mr. Holmes’ occupation is a ‘consulting detective’ for Scotland Yard and for private citizens?”

“He takes cases, yes.”

“And what is your role in these ‘cases’?”

“I…” How  _ could _ he explain what he did? “I’m his assistant.”

“And you write a blog about it?”

“Yes.”

“And as a result of this blog, the two of you have gained a bit of a following. You’re recognizable, to say the least.”

“I suppose that’s true, yeah,” John admitted, wondering where Martz was going with this.

“I understand you recently had a case which involved travel to Dartmoor, to Grimpen Village.”

John barely suppressed a shudder. He still had the occasional nightmare featuring the hallucinations he’d experienced in Baskerville and Dewer’s Hollow. “We did.”

“And while you were there you stayed at the Cross Keys Inn, where you were observed having an argument the second night after your arrival.”

“That wasn’t… That wasn’t an argument. We...Sherlock was a bit...worked up and I was trying to help him calm down.”

“And what had him ‘worked up’?”

“He saw something he couldn’t explain and he didn’t handle it well.”

“What did he see?”

“A hallucination caused by a drug he unknowingly inhaled.”

“I see. And did you suffer from hallucinations as well?”

“Not that night, no.”

“But later?”

“Yes. Sherlock was...conducting an experiment to figure out what was going on.”

“And he used you as a test subject?”

John’s eyes widened in surprise. “How in the hell did you find out about that?”

“I have my sources. How did you feel when you found out what he had done?”

“I was a bit annoyed with him. He apologized...in his own way.”

“And you accepted his apology?”

“Yes, of course.”

“Still, that wasn’t a nice thing to do. If it had been me, I’d have been angry. Were you angry, Dr. Watson?”

“Afterwards, yes. I got over it. Sherlock wasn’t the one who drugged me, after all.”

“Not for lack of trying.” John said nothing. “I’d have wanted a little payback, if it were me.”

“Payback doesn’t really work with Sherlock. He doesn’t understand guilt all that well.”

“But it would make  _ you _ feel better, wouldn’t it?”

“No.”

“Really?”

“Look, I told you, I didn’t do anything to him. I don’t know what happened, but I do know grown men don’t suddenly vanish into thin air!”

“On that we can agree. So tell me, what  _ did _ happen to him?”

“I already  _ did  _ tell you, I don’t know!”

“You were the last person to see him. The two of you went out to an old abandoned tenement and you were the only one who came back. Yes, you reported him missing, and we haven’t found a single trace of him, despite a nationwide search. So tell me, Doctor Watson, what am I supposed to think?” 

Before John could respond the door opened again and a familiar, albeit generally unwelcome figure entered the room.

“What in the hell are  _ you _ doing here?” John exclaimed, his heart thudding in his chest as the significance of this man’s presence hit him. “Have you found him?”

Mycroft Holmes studied John with an inscrutable expression for several moments before he turned to the third man in the room.

“That will be all, Detective Inspector. I’ll take it from here.”

Martz looked like he was about to protest but a look from Mycroft silenced him. He gathered up his folder, took one last look at John and left, closing the door behind him with a bit more force than necessary. Once he was gone Mycroft turned his full attention on John.

“To answer your question, Dr. Watson: no, we have not found my brother.”

“You can’t possibly think that I had anything--”   


“I do not. Your face betrays more than you think, and I have ascertained through observation of your interrogation that you truly do not know what happened to Sherlock.”

“But you do?”

“I have a suspicion of what may have occurred. I simply need a few more details.”

“Will we be able to find him? We’ll get him back?”

“One can always hope.”

“Alright. OK. What do you need from me?”

“I need you to start from the beginning.”

TBC...


	2. Chapter 1

John Watson lowered the newspaper he was currently reading to observe his flatmate, a wry smile crossing his face as he witnessed the man’s antics. Sherlock was pacing the length of the flat, his silk bathrobe fluttering around him as he wore a path in the already threadbare rug. John sighed and waited for the inevitable outburst.

“Argh! A case, John, I  _ need _ a case!” Sherlock turned to the seated man. “Nothing on the website?”

“Checked and rechecked. No requests, no queries, no comments on the last write-up, even.”

Sherlock flicked the corner of John’s paper, earning a glare. “Nothing from Lestrade?”

“Nope. Nothing in the paper you’d consider worthy of your attention, either.” He glanced towards the skull on the mantel. “And you’re back to cold-turkey on the cigarettes. I changed the hiding place.”

“I noticed.”

“I’m sure you did.”

Sherlock gave a theatrical sigh and stomped over to the desk to check the laptop. After confirming what John had told him, he let out a growl of frustration and started to pace again. After a few moments, he stopped and turned to John with an expectant expression. John cut him off before he could voice the obvious question on his mind.

“No Cluedo. I gave the box to Mrs. Hudson to hide or burn, her choice.”

“No, you didn’t.”

“Fine, but we’re not playing.”

“I need  _ something _ , John!”

_ A good swift kick in the arse is what you need _ , John managed  _ not _ to say before uttering a sigh of his own. “Alright. I’ll call Lestrade and see if he--” John paused and turned towards the sound of the bell before reacting with the detective in unison. 

“Client!”

John folded his paper and hurried down the stairs as Sherlock flitted off to his room. By the time he returned Sherlock was fully dressed and seated in his chair, his attention on the group that had followed John up to the flat. 

“Clients, it would seem. Have a seat.” John retrieved two more chairs from the kitchen so the two boys and one girl, all clearly barely out of their teens, could sit together facing Sherlock. “Now, what seems to be the trouble.”

The group shared troubled looks with each other before the young woman spoke.

“A friend of ours, Jake Eastman has gone missing and...we need you to find out what happened to him.”

“When and where did he go missing, and who saw him last?”

“Night before last. We were all the last ones to see him, and...we were all in an abandoned tenement in Haggerston.”

“Why?”

“Well, you see, the place has a bit of a reputation,” the younger of the two boys replied after sending a worried look towards his companion.

“What sort of reputation?” John asked.

“It’s supposed to be...haunted.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “Oh, let me guess. You’re ghost hunters.”

“Paranormal investigators,” the elder replied indignantly. “It was a scientific study.”

“Pseudo-scientific, at best. When did you notice your friend was missing?”

"Around 0300. We stayed together until 0100 and after that, we split up. Mia and Nigel went down to the sub-level to try and capture EVPs, and Jake and I went to the upper floors with the Mel meter and EMF, respectively.”

“I’m sorry, EVPs?” John asked, his forehead crinkled in confusion. “EMF? Mel meter?”

“Electronic voice phenomena,” Sherlock replied with a roll of his eyes. “They were attempting to record the voices of the dead that can’t be heard but supposedly can be picked up with digital recorders. The other pieces of equipment were for measuring fluctuation in electromagnetic frequency and temperature.” He smirked. “All of which can be explained without reference to the supernatural.”

“I told you this was a waste of time,” the girl snapped. “He doesn’t believe us.”

“I am quite willing to listen as far as it will help find your friend, but forgive me if I find your hobby ridiculous.”

“If you’d seen the things we have, you’d change your tune,” the younger boy declared.

“I doubt that. Now let’s return to the real case: your missing friend. When, specifically, did you realize he was gone?”

“At the 0300 check in. We had split up on the upper level and I didn’t see him when I made my circuit. I figured he had gone down to the ground floor. We use our mobiles to keep in touch by text during a case. I sent texts to everyone around 0300 and Jake didn’t reply so I went looking for him. He wasn’t in the building.”

“Maybe he had an emergency and had to leave,” John offered and Mia shook her head.

“After Isaac couldn’t find Jake he came down to the basement to get us. We tried calling Jake several times and he never answered. We searched the house from top to bottom and there was no sign of him. We checked the alleys and the other buildings we could get into. Nothing.

“After we left we checked the local hospitals and then the ones near his home in case he did have to leave for a family emergency. No one has seen him.” Mia shuddered. “It’s like he vanished.”

“Did you go to the police?”

“We did. They didn’t believe us. Said he must have run away.” Nigel flushed in anger. “One of them suggested we come see you. She seemed to think it was funny.”

“Donovan,” Sherlock growled with another roll of his eyes. “And they didn’t send someone out to investigate?”

“No. But we did some investigating of our own.” Isaac pulled a folded paper out of his pocket and held it out to Sherlock. “Five people have gone missing in that area in the last month. Most of them were homeless so no one made a big deal out of it, but the people we talked to were scared.”

“Undoubtedly,” Sherlock murmured as he took the paper and scanned it. He dropped it and pulled out his phone, sending out a quick text before setting the phone on the arm of the chair and returning his attention to the group. “Did you notice anything unusual around the time Jake disappeared?”

“The EMF was fluctuating a lot around the time he went missing. I mean a  _ lot _ .”

“Did you hear or smell anything out of place?”

“Ozone. Like it smells right before lightning occurs during a thunderstorm.”

“Hmm.” Sherlock tented his fingers under his chin and closed his eyes, remaining in place for nearly a minute until his mobile vibrated. He quickly snatched it up and after scanning the screen he smiled. “I’ll take the case.”

“Seriously?”

“Yes. Leave your contact information with Dr. Watson. We’ll be in touch.” Sherlock rose from his chair and headed for his room without a word as John scrambled to find a pen and paper. By the time he had collected to information and ushered the group down the stairs Sherlock had joined him, clearly ready to head out.

"Why this case?” John asked as they exited 221B.

“Other people  _ have _ gone missing, John. Two of them from my homeless network. I need to know if this is random or targeted.”

“You think it’s...Moriarty?”

“Possibly.”

Sherlock hailed a cab and gave the driver an address in Haggerston as they climbed in the back seat. One the cab was moving again, John continued his questions.

“Why would Moriarty kidnap homeless people and a...ghost hunter? What’s the connection?”

“That’s what we’re going to find out, although I strongly suspect this latest disappearance will not fit the rest of the pattern.”

“So you think this Jake kid is a matter of wrong place, wrong time?”

“Maybe. Or maybe a way to get my attention.”

John shuddered, remembering the last time Moriarty had tried to get Sherlock’s attention. 

“Seems a little low-key for him, though.”

“Which could mean he’s building up to something much worse.”

“Fantastic,” John muttered and rubbed a hand over his eyes as he leaned back in the seat and turned his head to watch the scenery pass by.

When they reached the building a thin, disheveled man in ripped jeans and a grimy jumper was waiting under the eaves. After the paying the driver John followed Sherlock as he walked towards his apparent contact.

“Myron.” Sherlock reached out to shake the man’s hand and John noticed a folded bill tucked under his thumb which had vanished when he withdrew. “What can you tell me?”

“Nothin’ good. Jimmy went in there two weeks ago, never came out. Annie went lookin’ for ‘im soon after. Same thing. Been a few more ignored our warnin’. Ain’t seen ‘em since.”

“Always this building? The last place they were seen?”

“Yep. Nobody’ll go in, now, ‘cept a bunch of kids two nights ago. They came back out, but one was missin’.”

“Has anyone seen him around since then?”

“Nope.”

“Have you seen anyone  _ else _ who doesn’t belong?”

“Nope. Ain’t seen  _ ‘im, _ neither.”

“Police?”

“The usual patrol. Nobody goes in there.”

“Splendid. Well, John, shall we?” Sherlock waved towards the decrepit structure.

“Seriously? You really want to go in there?”

“Of course. Are you armed?”

“Yes, of course, but--”   


"Good. Let’s go.” 

John sighed and followed the younger man into the building. It was in surprisingly decent shape inside, and John felt a small sense of relief that they wouldn’t have to worry about falling through the floor. Maybe.

"We should split up, cover more ground.”

“No, we really shouldn’t.”

“Really, John, you can’t tell me you’re worried about--”

“Moriarty. If it’s him, I remember what happened the last time we separated in the case involving him. I wound up with a bloody bomb strapped to my chest.”

Sherlock sighed and nodded. “Good point. Where would you like  _ us  _ to look first?”

“I guess we should start at the top and work our way down.” 

The two men found the staircase and soon reached the top floor. There was no evidence of human occupation with the exception of a few footprints in the dust. One of the front windows was broken and a swirl of leaves swept by their feet as the wind picked up outside. John was glad he had remembered to tuck a small flashlight in his pocket as the sky outside grew darker ahead of the gathering storm. 

They searched each room but found nothing of interest and then headed down to the next level. It was similarly empty, and soon they had returned to the ground floor. It didn’t take long to find the stairs to the cellar and they descended to the lowest level of the building.

“Doesn’t look like anyone’s been here.”

“The homeless population has clearly avoided this place. They do tend to be a bit superstitious.”

“Yeah, well I’d tend to give any place where people had mysteriously disappeared a wide berth of I were them, too. What now?”

“Now, we wait.”

“Here?”

“Unless you’d prefer outside.”

The sound of raindrops hitting the windows increased and John shook his head. “No, thank you.”

“Wise choice. Come on.” Sherlock led the way to a small room next to the front entrance. It wasn’t visible with the front door open but it gave them a decent view of anyone entering the building. The pair rummaged around until they found a couple of chairs that were sturdy enough to hold their individual weights and settled down out of sight to wait.

Finally, the stormed passed and the building fell silent, allowing the two men to carry on a final conversation.

“What if whoever is behind this doesn’t show up tonight?”

“We’ll set up surveillance.”

“And what if they do?”

“Subdue and interrogate, then call the police.”

“I think you might want to switch the order.”

“No. They wouldn’t get here fast enough for it to matter.”

“Right.”

They both lapsed back into silence, listening to the occasional rumble of distant thunder as another storm approached. 

“Atmosphere,” Sherlock murmured and John sent him a quizzical look.

“What?”

“It’s certainly the right atmosphere for a ‘ghost hunt’.”

“You’re not suggesting…?”

“Of course not. I was merely commenting on the mindset of those who pursue such things, like our young clients.”

“So… You think the kid got scared and left, and now he’s too embarrassed to face them?”

“Always a possibility.”

“Right, so what are we doing  _ here _ ?”

“Evaluating  _ other _ possibilities.”

John sighed. Clearly, Sherlock wasn’t in a sharing mood. 

Another hour passed before the detective climbed to his feet and started towards the door.

“Where are you going?”

Sherlock turned to him with a slight smirk. “To see a man about a horse.”

John rolled his eyes. “Just be careful.” 

Sherlock chuckled and disappeared through the doorway, leaving John alone in the darkness. The minutes passed slowly and finally, John checked his watch, surprised to see that his companion had been gone for nearly twenty minutes.

“Git,” he muttered. “You better damn well not be wandering the house by yourself.” John stood and stepped into the hallway, listening for some sign of the younger man. The area was silent, and John felt the hairs on the back of his neck rise.

“Sherlock?” His voice echoed through the building but there was no response. “Alright, this isn’t funny. Get back here.” Nothing. With a groan of exasperation, John started down the hallway to the stairs, sweeping his torch back and forth but the light failed to illuminate any signs of life. He pulled out his phone and sent a text, listening carefully for Sherlock’s text alert tone and was rewarded with a faint sound coming from above. He waited for a response but his own phone remained silent. After a few moments he sent another text, soon hearing the same tone but again there was no reply.

“Alright, that’s it. You better not be up there ignoring me.” He stomped up the steps and started to search the area. It didn’t take him long before he spotted Sherlock’s phone lying on the floor next to another object. He picked it up and examined it, noticing that the numbers on its digital readout were fluctuating rapidly.

“Sherlock?” He listened carefully, holding his breath, and was overcome with the sudden, almost instinctual urge to flee. He carefully backed away from the spot and checked the other rooms on the floor, finding nothing.

John ran to the top floor and started to frantically search for his friend. After finding nothing there as well he clambered down the steps to the first floor, checked it again, and then ran down to the basement. It was as empty as the rest of the house, and John ran back up the stairs and out the front door, his breath coming in short gasps as he searched the surrounding street in a near panic.

_ “SHERLOCK!” _

The rain-swept streets remained eerily silent as John finally reached one horrible conclusion.

Sherlock was gone.

 

TBC...


	3. Chapter 3

 

John looked up at Mycroft who was still watching him with his usual inscrutable expression. 

 

“You know what happened next: I called Lestrade, we searched the building again together and he called for an expanded search of the area. We found nothing, just his phone and that meter thing he had.”

 

“The EMF meter. You said it was fluctuating when you found it.”

 

“Yes.”

 

“And you had the Mel Meter. What was it doing?”

 

“Nothing.”

 

“I see.”

 

John took a deep breath in an attempt to control the anger bubbling to the surface. “Do you know what happened to Sherlock?”

 

Mycroft sighed. “I have a suspicion, but I will need to consult with someone to confirm it.”

 

“Who?”

 

“No one you know.” He turned and opened the door. “Follow me.”

 

“Where are we going?” John asked as he rose from his chair, wincing when his knees popped.

 

“First, Baker Street. You’ll need to collect your belongings before I take you to a safe location.”

 

“Wait, you’re worried about  _ my _ safety?” John felt a chill creep down his spine when he suddenly realized what that could mean. “So this  _ does _ have something to do with Moriarty.”

 

“Trust me, Moriarty is not involved.”

 

“How can you be certain?”

 

Mycroft gave him a cryptic smile and stepped out into the hallway where he was immediately met by Martz. The DI noticed John following the elder Holmes brother and moved to block their path with a hostile expression on his face.

 

“Where are you taking the suspect?”

 

“Dr. Watson is no longer a suspect.”

 

“Based on what?”

 

“My assessment. Allow us to pass.”

 

Martz stood his ground. “I’m going to need more than that. He was the last one to see--”

 

“I am aware. Trust me when I say that Dr Watson was not involved in my brother’s, ah,  disappearance.”

 

“But--”

 

“Step aside, Inspector, or shall have you removed from your post.”

 

“You don’t have the power to do that!”

 

“Yes, he does.”

 

John turned towards the new voice and was surprised to see an unfamiliar man looking distinctly unhappy.

 

“Chief Inspector, Sir, I--”

 

“I will handle this, Martz. Leave.”

 

“Yes, Sir.”

 

Martz sent John a furious glance before turning on one heel and stalking down the hallway. When he was out of sight, the CI turned to Mycroft.

 

“I certainly hope you are correct, Mr Holmes.”

 

“I am, Chief Inspector.”

 

“Where will Dr Watson be staying?”

 

“Somewhere safe...and secure.”

 

“Understood. Good day, gentlemen.” He turned and followed Martz’s path, soon disappearing around the same corner. Mycroft sighed in irritation.

 

“Come, Dr Watson. We have quite a journey to make today.”

 

“Why is Martz so convinced that I did something to Sherlock?” John asked as he followed Mycroft through the maze of corridors that led to the rear entrance of Scotland Yard. When they were finally in the waiting black sedan, Mycroft gave John a reply.

 

“DI Martz harbours a prejudice against anyone in the military. Do not take it personally.”

 

“How did he find out about our argument in the pub in Grimpen Village and what happened at Baskerville?” Mycroft said nothing and John gritted his teeth in irritation. “You told him, didn’t you?”

 

“Merely to judge his competency as an interrogator.”

 

“Great. Thanks for putting me through that.” John considered the information Martz had used. “Do you think Baskerville is involved?”

 

“No.”

 

“Am I going to get a straight answer about what happened?”

 

“When I know, Dr Watson, you will know.”

 

“And when will that be?”

 

“Hopefully not long after we reach our final destination. The faster you are at gathering what you’ll need for a few days away, the sooner we will reach that point.”

 

“I don’t see why you didn’t send one of your henchmen.”

 

Mycroft sent him one of those smug smiles that made John want to put his fist through the older man’s face. “My ‘henchmen’ are otherwise occupied, and I suspect you be much better suited to the task.” 

 

“Ta,” John grumbled as Mycroft turned his attention to his mobile phone, effectively ending the conversation. 

 

John crossed his arms over his chest and leaned back against the soft leather seat, turning his head to watch the scenery pass by as the driver made his way through the crowded streets of London. John kept an eye out for a familiar figure out of habit even though he knew he was unlikely to catch a glimpse of his errant flatmate. Up until Mycroft had entered the interrogation room, John had held on to the hope that this was all one of Sherlock’s crazy experiments, that he would show up again, clueless as to how much he had upset those closest to him. The elder Holmes’ presence had dashed that hope, and John’s fear for Sherlock held a cold grip around his heart. What could possibly have happened to Sherlock that had worried even his brother?

 

“Are you sure this isn’t because of Moriarty?” John asked again, breaking the silence.

 

“Positive. He is currently not in a position to...create such chaos.”

 

Mycroft’s tone almost made John feel sorry for the Irishman. Almost.

 

The sedan finally turned onto Baker Street and Mycroft huffed in annoyance while John sucked in a breath in surprise. There were perhaps a dozen members of the press waiting outside 221B, and John wasn’t looking forward to dodging them, that was certain. 

 

“Pity the rear entrance is not as easy to access as the one at the Yard,” Mycroft commented before directing the driver to stop across the street. “Do not engage them, Dr Watson. We’re on a tight schedule.”

 

“Right.” John opened the door and stepped out, wondering if he could sneak around to the back but the journalists noticed him almost immediately.

 

_ “Doctor Watson, has Holmes been found?” _

 

_ “Does Scotland Yard have any leads?” _

 

_ “Have you been questioned?” _

 

_ “How do you feel about him going missing?” _

 

_ “Did  _ you _ have anything to do with it?” _

 

John bristled at that last question but remained silent as he forced his way through the group, feeling a small rush of satisfaction when he accidentally trod on someone’s foot in the process. Finally he managed to unlock the door and slip inside before he slammed it shut against the cries of protests and shouted questions. Mrs Hudson almost immediately emerged from her flat and confronted him.

 

“John! Have they found him?”

 

“Not yet, Mrs Hudson.”

 

“This is terrible! Those people have been outside all night, asking the most horrible questions about Sherlock  _ and  _ you! Are you all right?”

 

“I’m fine. I’m just stopping in to get a few things. I’ll be gone for a few days.”

 

“Oh, dear. Where are you going?”

 

“To try… To find Sherlock. Somehow.”

 

“Well if anyone can, it’s you.”

 

“Thank you, Mrs Hudson.” He gave her a hug, which she returned. “Maybe you should go away for a few days as well, at least until all of this calms down.”

 

“Nonsense. Those people are not driving me out of my home. Besides, someone has to be here, just in case Sherlock comes home.”

 

John managed a smile. “All right. Take care of yourself.”

 

“You too, John.”

 

He gave her one last smile before heading up the stairs to the flat he shared-- _ still _ shared, damn it!--with the eccentric consulting detective. When he opened the door she saw the room was in slightly more disarray than normal, evidence that either the Yard personnel or Mycroft’s people had searched the place while John was absent. He suspected that if it had been Mycroft’s people everything would have put back exactly as it had been.

 

With a sigh John moved into the kitchen, noting more evidence of a hurried search and checked the refrigerator to see if anything needed to be thrown out. It was empty save a few jars and a carton of eggs that was not yet past its expiration date. Sherlock’s experiments had apparently been seized in the search. John didn’t envy the poor forensic scientist that would have to sort that out, and wondered if Anderson would get stuck with the task. In that case…

 

He closed the door and moved back to the sitting room, wincing as his gaze rested on the pair of empty chairs in front of the fireplace. He could almost see Sherlock sitting there, one thin leg crossed over the other, elbows on the arms of the chair and fingers tented beneath his chin as he pondered a puzzle only he could understand before launching into to an explanation that would leave John dizzy as he tried to follow the rapid-fire speech and mental gymnastics.

 

John shook his head as the terrible thoughts he had been keeping at bay since the whole thing started resurfaced with a vengeance. Would he ever see his friend sitting there again?

 

“I’ll find you Sherlock. Somehow, I  _ will  _ find you.”

 

He slowly turned away from the scene and headed for the stairs to his own room. It didn’t take him long to collect enough clothes and other necessities, enough for a week, and locate a duffel bag to hold his belongings. He made one last check of his room and headed back down the stairs, pausing once more to make a quick, regretful survey of the sitting room before continuing his descent to the ground level.

 

He never noticed the wide-eyed, disheveled figure peering out at him through the mirror above the fireplace, silently screaming his name. 


End file.
